Princess Nell
by JMK758
Summary: Six weeks after the incidents depicted in 'Supervillain Affair', Eric Beale tries to turn a nightmare into a dream. Contains elements from 'In the Hearts of Men'. Rated M for Adult content.
1. Surprise

This story takes place as a follow up to my 'Supervillain Affair', the July Fourth holiday, as Eric Beale tries to turn a nightmare into a dream.

Princess Nell  
by JMK758  
Chapter One  
Surprise

NCIS Analyst Nell Jones lets herself into her apartment at 2246 and the moment she locks the door and turns on the living room light she knows something's wrong. It's in the feel of her private space; that by some unnamed but carefully heeded sense she knows this space isn't private anymore.

Across the room is a bookcase and in the small box upon a shelf is a loaded .22 full automatic. That's the good news.

The bad news is that she's already announced her presence, and not at all stealthily, even before turning on the 200 watts. Hettie would have a lot to say about this, assuming she manages to make it into NCIS after the Independence Day holiday.

But the second complication is that to reach the bookcase, yank open the box and get her hand around the small grip, perfect size for her, she must cross the trail of red rose petals that extend, each touching the other, from her feet to arc left to the closed door of her bedroom.

Rose petals?

Closed door? Nope. Not when she left. Not ever. And an unbroken line trail of red rose petals? Either this is the most outré ambush since the last 'BBC in America' rerun of the Avengers - she's always preferred the ones with Tara King - or maybe she doesn't need the .22 after all.

She crosses the room, retrieves the weapon and thumbs the safety off. If she gets killed now, having decided this isn't an ambush, Hettie will track her down someday in Heaven and make her Afterlife an unliving Hell.

x

Her bedroom door has no latch or cylinder so, weapon up and ready, she follows the curved line of red petals to the door, raises her foot flat upon the wood and shoves, allowing herself to fall into a shooting stance under the door arch.

Weapon extended into the small, unoccupied room - there is no waiting assassin - the red sheeted and pillow cased bed in the middle of the room is still wrong.

For one thing, she decides as she walks in, the bed is red sheeted. It was a white sheet, pillowcase, upper sheet set this morning. Now while the bed is sprinkled with petals almost lost in the fiery material, there's something very alien lying upon it - and when she whirls right and aims her weapon into the only blind corner in the room Eric Beale is sitting on one of her kitchen chairs.

"Don't shoot," he suggests calmly, annoyingly calm for an intruder with a .22 bullet aimed at the bridge of his glasses.

She puts the weapon up. If Hettie was going to get aggravated at her getting assassinated because her guard was down in her own apartment, how would she react to her shooting her partner?

"You broke into my apartment. I could arrest you for this."

"I always thought things between us would eventually involve handcuffs," he tells her, far too smugly considering how angry she is at him.

"Well, if so, you're wearing them, my friend. I am not into bondage."

x

She puts the .22 on her dresser, wanting it out of her hands because she's not angry with him about the intrusion. Okay, she's angry but the petals take a bit of the sting out and the change in bedding actually intrigues her. But it's what's _on_ the bed that heats her blood - and not in the way the petals had implied.

Laid out exactly as they would be if worn are things she'd thought never to see again. During an Undercover assignment that started in LA and unexpectedly wound up in the Hotel Meritz in DC during the Memorial Day weekend, at the Greater East Coast Comic Art Convention, while gathering information on the International Arms Dealer Grekor Kanyicska, she was obliged to wear a Science Fiction costume so her alter-ego alias Betty Willoughby could fit in.

On the whole that wouldn't have been so bad - she can be a Fan-Girl when the mood strikes her - but the costume chosen for her by Kanyicska was 'Slave Leia' from Star Wars Episode 5 and the mood very definitely did not strike her.

x

For three days she was forced, literally forced, to walk among thousands of people in a costume Carrie Fisher would have vehemently objected to if anyone had dared offer it. The distinction between the two was that Fisher got to wear brown cups in her gold filigree bra, while all she had to parade about the hotel in was the widely spaced gold filigree metal curves.

Utterly mortified to be trapped among thousands of people, photographed against her will tens of thousands of times - or so she remembers it - the absolute worst moment was when she was _recognized_ by a local NCIS Agent, someone she knew as well as he did her.

Okay, that had actually been a turning point, and the first good thing that'd happened to her since she was spirited out of LA. She'd found a measure of solace and support from the man and his wife, also an NCIS employee - but that succor was negated by the fact that Betty Willoughby, her cover identity, had to submit to being _used_ at will by Kanyicska and his gang.

She refuses to remember how many times that she had been with- no, been _under_ those men. She'd called upon her Agent training to divorce her mind and feelings from what was happening to her body - and absolutely failed in every second of each and every attempt.

She thanks God none of the men had brutalized or tortured her, but each one had hurt her so thoroughly inside that she's spent what seems like hundreds of hours with psychologist Nate Getz over the past six weeks.

She'd come to understand the worst part of her pain had stemmed from helplessness. She'd been an impotent, helpless slave to those men and their pric–!

Granted she had the satisfaction that Kanyicska's men are dead and she'd had an uninterrupted minute to revenge herself upon the hated man, but this satisfaction had been negated when that idiot Judge had set an affordable bail for a multi-billionaire and the bastard had walked.

x

She whirls on the man. "_What the HELL are these doing here_?"

Whatever Eric was thinking, and she's sure they were happy thoughts worthy of Peter Pan, they don't survive that blast. Splitting his glasses with her .22 would probably have been much gentler, or at least would have allowed him a rapid out he's not getting now.

"Well, I - that is I - I was thinking–"

"I really doubt it."

"Well, I was - errr - thinking about that Convention where - errr - where you–"

"Were seen by ten thousand people 95% naked for three days."

"Welllll, when you - when you put it like–"

"I gave those to you to throw away!"

"Yes, you did."

He hadn't done a very good job. "Well, where did you throw them?"

"My closet."

She is so completely unsurprised. "So why are they _here_? Did you think that somehow I'd look sexy in these–?"

"Yes."

x

And that's how a universe flips upside down. In that single, simple word she sees an Eric Beale she always knew and had never seen before; a comfortable friend who's suddenly as much a stranger - no, as much a... something as someone she hadn't seen before.

She knows his mind, knows his likes, but there's an unanticipated depth to him - and his likes - that...

She looks at the clothes on the bed, the gold filigree bra with zero protection - she couldn't even keep both nipples covered without constant adjustments that too often failed her; the two long and too slender bands of purple that reached from too low on her hips to bare insteps and Achilles tendons, held aloft to her hips by gold quasi-ovals; a crotch piece she still hasn't figured out the worth of, and swirling gold armlets that decorated her upper arms without function other than to announce 'slave' to the universe - and for the very first time she sees them with his vision.

Yes, they're iconic sexy - they wouldn't have survived three decades if they weren't - but for the very first time she sees them not as she had, a method of abusive humiliation and brutal slavery, not as thousands of people saw them over those three horrific days –

But as Eric sees them.

x

"Is this how you see me?"

He pushes himself out of the chair, slowly approaches. "As a slave girl? No. As a possession? No. As the most beautiful woman alive, insanely and maddeningly desirable so much so that it hurts; whose beauty transcends everything but can also be decorated for love? Definitely yes."

She looks at the clothes - such as they are - memories changing - and looks up into the eyes of the man, and in those seconds her view of him changes as well.

"You want to see me in these?"

"Ever since that Convention, dozens of websites, and not having been there. I felt like the only one who... I've lost so much sleep thinking about you."

"That's almost sweet... in a creepy sort of way." But she didn't want the hurt that creeps into his eyes. In fact, it was only thoughts of him and what he'd have done to avenge her honor, and then to comfort her while she cried in his arms, that got her through those terrible days.

But there's one thing she has to have if they're going to have the relationship she hopes for. She takes his hands in hers, stroking gently. "Eric Beale, I love you... and you are a _liar_."

"What?" He pulls away, outraged.

x

She won't let him get far. "Well, not exactly a liar, but not the whole truth either. You've lain awake at night thinking about me. Flattering, my friend. You don't want a slave girl. Good, because I'm never going to be anyone's slave and especially not yours." She glances at the bed, forcing his eyes to follow, at least for a moment before they re-meet hers.

"But those are the clothes of a strong woman brought down, one subjugated - or so he thought - by her captor / master. They're a super sex icon because they represent a woman dominated, controlled... _used_, and that's your dream too, just as it's every man's." His eyes flare. "Part of you wants me beside you, but there's still another part of you that gets a thrill putting me on my knees. Admit it."

She sees he would protest, would stand upon some moral PC High Ground, and much as she knows and cares for him, he has that same atavistic urge every man does. The caveman is not that far away from the technoscience wunderkind. "Admit it, or get out and go home - and don't come back unless I invite you."

x

For a long time he looks everywhere except at her eyes and the words, when they ultimately come, come hard. "I want you as my … that is..."

"Ninety eight percent of the time beside you, and two percent on my knees - in this thing," she finishes, directing his eyes to what he'd kept for weeks and tonight had laid out upon her bed.

"You're a man. You can't help it; it's in your genes."

"All right, I admit it! What do you _want_ of me?"

"I want you to go out on the couch and wait - while I think about your atrociously sexist request." She turns him, herding him out. "If after an hour you look in and I've gone to bed you leave and go home and never bring this up again."

"An _hour_?" He makes it sound like a Death sentence, by slow torture.

"Sixty solid minutes." She takes hold of the door, her other hand on his back. "And if you put your nose through this door any sooner," she points to the garment, "you're walking home in this."

"But–"

She pushes him out, closes the door firmly, wishing it did have a latch. Turning, she follows with her eyes the trail of red rose petals that runs to the foot of the red bed and to the outrageous slave costume resting among the petals.


	2. Beat

Chapter Two  
Beat

Eric Beale sits on the middle cushion of the couch against the living room's far wall facing Nell's bedroom door. He's utterly miserable, stupid, insane, presumptuous, idiotic, lost.

He blew it.

He absolutely blew it.

He let a fantasy that for weeks has tied every organ in his body into knots make him make a move that totally ruined every prayer he'll ever have to be happy with the only woman on the planet.

He should have kept his fantasies to himself, should have kept his secrets secret, should have jumped out the window!

This was how he was ten minutes after being thrown out of the only woman on Earth's bedroom.

Now, watching the time on the cable box upon her television change from eighteen minutes to nineteen since she threw him out, he feels himself go into a sharp decline.

Stupid sexist maniac. Idiotic hormonal bastard. Blind imbecile. Madman! He doesn't deserve her. She'd be better off with a cocker spaniel.

How could he do something so _stupid_? The line of rose petals trailing from front door to bedroom and sprinkling the bed - $95 to strip that many bouquets - that would've been fine. She'd probably have thought it romantic. The red sheets and pillowcase - okay, he might have gotten away with that. She might have considered it cute. The sex slave outfit–.

He looks to the window. Can someone die from a one story fall? Yes, if he angles his head just right to snap his neck he ca–

x

The thump of a drum isn't loud from across the room but, the bass on whatever it is with the sound surround speakers turned to max, the drum beat vibrates the wall behind his head. Several drums play as well, establishing a primitive beat and another four seconds later a heavy thump emerges from the closed bedroom, not louder than the others but with heavy power. Under it the intense beat of drums provide a rhythm that speaks more to the libido than the soul. Four seconds into the pounding beat of the under drums another loud drumbeat feels like it's climbing into his chest with him. The drums under it cast an erotic beat and, four seconds later, another gargantuan heartbeat.

The bedroom door before him slowly opens, taking the time from the steady under drums and when he sees her framed in the doorway his own heart slams into his sternum and explodes into a billion fragments.

x

The costume is far more than any picture scavenged from the Convention, Facebook or anywhere else could prepare him for because it's the woman inside it. The glittering gold bra is far less than Carrie Fisher had worn; there are no brown cups but only the gold metal filigree hints at hiding a bit of her stunning breasts that he's strained his eyes over in Ops for so many years. Nell in tight sweater or blouse is enough to send him down in flames. This is a million times more. Her nipples, for the moment if she doesn't breathe deeply, are somewhat obscured by the glistening metal. She breathes to the drum, and at the heavy beat thrusts her chest forward in offer.

The two purple bands start very low on her hips, eight inches wide front and back from her hips to level with her bare instep. The gold codpiece hides little and barely pretends to try, serving absolutely no purpose at all. The ornate filigree bracelets on her upper arms, hinting at the same design as the notion of a bra, also glitter in the light like her shining breasts. Her short red hair in the bright light, still bright from her undercover persona, is an extra treat.

He's almost pulled the fragments of his heart back together. She smiles and that organ explodes, the super nova obliterating everything for five hundred million miles.

x

She takes a slow bare toe to heel step in the drumbeats and he stands, but she very firmly points to the cushion behind him, not an emphatic gesture but an absolute command.

He sits down on the center cushion.

She approaches to the pounding, her hips swaying slowly, but they bump to the heavy drumbeat as she steps toe to heel until she's directly in front of him.

He can't speak aloud, his voice went with that nova, so he can only manage a whisper. "You are absol–" Her fingertip firmly upon his lips is more of a command than the one to stay seated.

She raises her hands, wrists crossed high above her head and a slow wiggle to the drum beats starts at her fingers and ends at her toes. With each four second pound her hips thrust left or right and his heart nearly seizes. She wiggles a few more times, equally slowly, her hips accenting the drums, just to be sure she has his attention.

She bends slightly, close to him, brings her hands down, puts her right index finger past her lips, licking and thoroughly moistening it as the beats fill him. With her left hand she shifts her right breast until her nipple, already hard and high, peeks out between the thin gold metal. She wets it with her fingertip, stroking the erect nub around and around until it glistens in the bright light, sighing heavily over and over at the assault on her sensitive nub to the beat of the lower drums. She pinches her nipple on the heavy thump and backs away a step, and fixes the metal to hide both nipples.

x

Standing before him she cups her breasts, moving her torso to the pounding rhythm, her hips particularly emphasizing the motions to the slow pounding beat, then thrusting on the heavy notes. Spreading her feet slightly further, she shifts her hips forward, the purple bands hanging and almost left behind by the swaying hips and yet they reveal nothing.

He reaches for her but she grasps his wrists, firmly presses his hands down until she pushes them under his legs, then she backs a step out of reach, smiling and slowly wagging her finger at him.

Turning to the side, she continues to move to the steady beat, allowing him to watch the nude line from shoulder past breast, past hip and along shapely leg down to toes. She sways gently to the driving beat of the drums and with every four second heavy drum beat she bumps her hips forward suggestively, making the purple bands sway between her slightly spread legs but not enough to allow a glimpse of anything.

She turns and slowly backs a step away, still near but tantalizingly out of reach, her hips swaying to the constant beat, then harder bumps at the heavy. She pets her breasts, stroking her fingers from inner sides to outer; touching what little isn't covered by the filigree. .

Reaching under the metal of each bra cup she gently pinches her hidden nipples on the lower notes, rhythmically squeezes to the huge drum, head back, moaning. She thrusts her hips to him in time to her gentle tweaking, her moans in time to the swaying purple strips.

She reaches down with her left hand, slips her fingers up behind the swaying purple curtain and her loud groan almost launches his hair from his head.

She brings her hand back up to her lips and gives her fingers a long, sensual lick before she slowly backs away with that toe to heel motion that emphasizes every muscle in her tapering legs.

x

In the middle of the room, to the under beat that's much slower than his pounding heart she slowly descends to her knees, sits to her feet and leans backward onto her hands, raises her hips, her upper body kept up on her arms as she slowly breathes very deeply, over and over, her breasts rising and falling with every breath slow, full breath.

Eric's breathing is sharper and better than twice as fast.

Leaning back onto her feet she as slowly spreads her legs so the wide purple band falls in, still covering her crotch. Balanced on her hands well back behind her she raises her hips, her legs widely spread, an offer to him if he dared disobey and take her. To the steady beat she shifts her hips, thrusting upward on the sharp bump, her crotch reaching out to him, begging for him. Every four seconds it's like she's rising to meet his thrusts.

He tries to lean from one side to the other, but long ago she'd assured herself of what coverage she has.

She reaches forward with her left hand, her right behind supporting her weight and she runs her fingertip over her crotch, not touching the shielding material or herself but moaning loudly with every petting false stroke.

x

She pushes herself upright onto her bare knees, then over until she's nearly lowered her breasts to the carpet, her rump raised in invitation. She looks up, a feral gleam in her eyes as she very slowly, emphasizing every lioness' hunting movement, brings her body low and crawls along the carpet, knees spread so she won't trap and pull off a purple band.

She comes to the couch, a long slow and sensual trek. Reaching up and catching her nails in his knees she climbs him to the thumps, brings her feline body up close to him. When she clears his lap her eyes alight as she 'finds' the tented target. She gently runs one paw along the tented tip, watching his eyes explode as she then runs her claws along that tip.

She strokes again, claws giving way to palm and fingers, stroking only the very tip until, on her fourth turn she must stop, fearful he may have the stroke.

She continues her climb to the drums, not touching him with anything but her hands until, coming up off her knees, her body inches before his, she grasps his wrists firmly, reminding him. Boosting on that grip, she raises higher, pushes until her chest is level with his face.

Grasping a fistful of his curly hair, she pulls his head back and her lips just brush his forehead, the most tentative of almost kisses. Releasing him, she uses her fingertips on her left breast to ease her nipple into view and, hands now on his shoulders, she lowers it to his lips.

He's a good boy and takes hints well. He kisses her hard nipple for several sensual seconds as she sways her chest to the steady beat, then she pulls away, pulls with her fingertips at her right breast to uncover that nipple and, balanced again on his shoulders, brings it in for his kiss.

He kisses it for at least ten heavy drum beats, draws it out and she doesn't pull away, very content to linger. But then she feels his tongue on her tip and shoves his shoulders, bounces him off the couch back and using the force to stand. Slowly swaying her hips, she makes a show of putting her nipples back under their scarcely protective cover and wagging one finger at him. He smiles so she reaches down and at the heavy thump gives the top of his tent a pinch.

His eyeballs nearly cannon through his glasses and across the room.


	3. Offer

Chapter Three  
Offer

Backing away with that feral motion of every muscle in her slim body in time to the erotic beat, Nell continues to sway to the hard beats, her hands slowly caressing her body from breasts to crotch at the under rhythm. She steps in, rotating her hips, bumping harder on the loud beats, offering much and giving nothing.

She slowly turns about, bare back to him, arms high over her head, wiggling from fingers to toes, waving her bum slowly in long wide arcs, showing him what he can have if he doesn't break the rules again while allowing herself a thrilled, unseen smile.

Subjugated, dominated, controlled woman? Brought down and used? Helpless slave? She's had Absolute Control since second one, reveling in a power she hadn't had at the Meritz.

She reaches back behind herself, hips now describing a small, slow circle. She stops the circle and, with her fingertips, she takes the purple material high up. Slowly, very slowly, ultra slowly she draws the purple curtain aside. A sixteenth of an inch, an eighth of an inch, a quarter inch, a half inch... An inch. Two. Nearing three... She releases the curtain to cover her again and looks back over her shoulder.

He's tense enough to shatter, and if he tries to get off the couch now he'd probably leave an Eric shaped hole in her far bedroom wall.

x

Reaching out, she invites his hands up and takes them, interlacing fingers with him and she steps up, bare feet on either side of his hips and, supported by his grip, she spreads her legs and lowers herself a few inches. Her crotch level with his eyes, she shifts her hips forward and slowly leans her upper body back, her legs spread on either side of him and her curtain hiding everything.

Her grinding hips inch forward, shift left and right to the slow drumbeats, moving closer and closer to his face with every double sway. Six inches, three, two, close enough for the material to touch his nose.

He leans forward to plant a loving kiss but she leaps back off the couch before his lips can touch her.

x

Still gripping his hands, she moves hers until she's holding his from the backs, his fingers cupped upward. Then she bends over, leans in, her breasts coming down to his hands.

In her grips he can't raise them. He tries but she holds him down, her breasts hanging full and delicious a quarter inch above his questing fingers. Hips swaying sensually behind her, bent over for such easy access if he were back there, shoulders rising and falling, first one and then the other, she moves her breasts to the beat, left and right, forward and back, her breath deep, as she keeps his hands so close to her yet pulled so agonizingly far.

Finally she pulls his hands down to his lap, uses the grip to lean in, their lips a half inch apart, she puckered for the kiss. But every time he moves in she withdraws, further and further until he can no longer strain to reach her puckered lips and they never touch.

She releases him and backs away to the steady beat, again just out of reach, still moving so sensually she tears his mind.

Hips swaying, she slowly advances almost up to him, bends and grasps his wrists, presses them firmly to his knees.

Breath heavier, she straightens and arches her hips in a wide circle, each time coming close to him. She steps forward carefully, her knees on either side of his left knee, steps inches closer until, her legs separated by his, she's finally blocked by the couch.

Reaching down, she takes the edge of her purple band between her fingertips, shifts her hips to give him what would be a better view, her vagina pointing right at his eyes behind the curtain. She slowly pulls the band aside, his eyes widen as he stares, locked on to the show she's about to give him. Eighth of an inch, quarter inch, half inch, inch, and a half, nearly two, his straining eyes so hungry. She slows, fingertips moving so slowly and she can hear his heart pounding under the loud drumbeat. His face is getting red as she moves so slowly, her creaming vagina… almost… in… view….

She rushes back, dropping the band to full coverage again and he looks like he's about to scream as she resumes her bumping grinds to the steady beat, thrusting on the bumps..

x

She bends slowly, nearly touching the floor and, with her fingertips, takes the two corners of the purple band. Straightening, she slowly draws the band up, baring her lower legs, her knees, slows the revelation up her thighs until just a bare inch hides her. She then lowers the band slightly and offers the end to him.

He leans forward, reaches to take it. She drops it, shoves his shoulders and bounces him off the back of the couch.

She backs away further until she reaches her bedroom doorway.

x

Leaning against the door frame, she pretend strokes at the top of the purple band, not touching it but gasping, sighing and moaning as she thrusts her hips out toward her hand and him. Her panting is loud, sharp.

Her movements build more sharply by the second as she pretend works herself faster, more fervently, still not touching the band or herself, her breath heavy, her breasts heaving, the gold glistening in the light.

x

She looks up, smiles in offer and gives him a slow wink.

She comes off the wall, cocks her finger in invitation and backs away into the bedroom, hips swaying to the beat.

x

He's off the couch in an instant and follows her through the door. The drums surround them with a force that pounds into his body as she climbs backward onto the red sheeted, rose covered bed and crawls until she reaches the pillow.

But then she raises her hand to halt him at the foot of the bed.

Lying down, she spreads her legs, a lingering motion, the material falling between her thighs, again obscuring her. Raising her knees, she braces her shoulders and feet on the mattress and pushes up.

Balanced on her shoulders, she reaches for the gold filigree, detaches the bindings and lets the glistening bra fall to her right, her breasts given to him.

She reaches down, takes the obscuring purple, slowly draws it upward, inch by inch. The end comes off the mattress, up, up, up and then unveils her, drops down to her side.

Hips held aloft, she strokes her fingertips along her glistening labia, shifts upward and spreads wider, her fingertips spread her lips to welcome him.

_Fin_


End file.
